


Athazagoraphobia

by Aetherands



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Emotional Baggage, Family Dynamics, Found Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Pain, Possible TWs read the notes each chapter i dont know what im doing, References to Depression, no beta we die like wilbur, post november 16th, slow updates lol im dyslexic, tags will update as i write this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:22:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27671987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aetherands/pseuds/Aetherands
Summary: "You blew up L'manberg! Of course you're just as bad as him!" He spat, finally turning around to face the ghost trailing him. His eyes narrowed and his mouth curled, clearly annoyed.Wilbur's face fell. "I did what?"——————In which a president can't remember the things he's done. (aka a fic based off of Wilbur's amnesia lol hit that whip nae nae)edit: (I HAVE A PLAN NOW AHAHAH I WILL INCLUDE THE NEW LORE GIVE ME A BIT BUT I ACTUALLY HAVE A PLAN)
Relationships: All platonic don't ship people christ, Dave | Technoblade & Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit & Phil Watson, Floris | Fundy & Wilbur Soot
Comments: 13
Kudos: 281





	1. Dead Stone

Wilbur's body felt so cold. So, so cold. Light shone down on his singed skin, breaking through his closed eyes and waking him up. His joints were unnaturally stiff as he sat up from his position on the floor, and a loud ringing coursed throughout his head. 

His eyes slowly opened and closed while he tried to adjust to his surroundings. Wherever he was, he sure as hell didn't remember falling asleep there. The walls were covered in frantic carvings, each one relating to some part of L'manberg's history. Friend's names, messages saying to 'do it', the nation's national anthem; it looked like the work of a mad man. It cut off to his right, the stone surrounding him jutting out into sharp points, revealing an unfamiliar crater in the spruce plain. 

At first, it didn't quite register what was in front of him. It must've been some sort of sick joke created by his mind. The hole stretched from what should've been the podium to the back lake, water and stone falling over itself inside; remnants of buildings lining the pit. Everything that had once been there was gone, all signs of life disappeared. He continued to stare on at the nightmare, hoping, praying, that it would all fade away and he'd wake back up. Away from this hell, away from the pain that crushed his chest. But the smell of smoke in the air mocked him and pushed painfully against his senses, worsening his already damaged body. 

Wilbur's foot shifted awkwardly as he attempted to stand up for the first time in who knew how long, and it suddenly hit him how strangely light he felt. It was as though he had no real presence in the world, like he shouldn't be there. His skin was oddly grey compared to his yellow sweater as well, scars twisting up and down his arms. 

He attempted to take a step forward, but stumbled over the rough ground, and caught himself on one of the stone walls. He laid there as he caught his breath, his hand unconsciously tracing the words in the wall. The grooves were shallow and short, each line made up of dozens of little scratches. Whoever had done this had spent hours on each message, and had probably been the one to blow up the country.

Blow up. Someone blew up the country. The land they fought so hard for. It hadn't hit him how serious the implications of such a thing were until then. If anyone was caught in the explosion, they would've been killed instantaneously. And if anyone was unlucky enough to be struck by shrapnel they would've bled out in one of the most cruel and agonizing ways there is. 

_Where was Tommy? Where was Sally? Why was no one else out? Why was he in a place almost untouched by the explosion?_

His mind began to race as he ran through the hundreds of possibilities, each one worse than the last.

_Was everyone killed? Was that why he felt so alone?_

His hands clenched into fists and tears started to prickle at his waterline.

_If everyone was dead, then what was he supposed to do? Just stay there? Die with them?_

His breathing turned more and more desperate, blurring the lines of choking, and he dropped to his knees. 

_Who caused this?_

Hunched over on the floor once again, Wilbur felt sick. His hand clutched at his side, digging so hard into his ribs it felt like he was going to pierce one. The bile in his stomach rose up into his throat, and he struggled to keep it in. Tears stained his legs and the floor around him, leaving behind unwelcome reminders.

He wanted nothing more than to sink into the ground right then and there, to disappear with whatever had taken his land. But god wouldn't allow for such a crueless fate, and instead, the familiar feeling of dry-heaving washed over him. 

His back arched and fingers curled, and his throat started to push up on itself. His entire body ached, shaking violently as his stomach pushed out nothing despite what his body told him to do. He desperately attempted to clamor up the wall to stabilize himself, but his body kept pushing, and his mind kept spiraling. 

His vision began to fade into painful haziness and the heaving slowed, but the nausea didn't. It _wouldn't_ stop. He grabbed his stomach with his other hand now, completely collapsed in on himself. If Wilbur could see himself in the moment he probably would've been saying he was pathetic. Pathetic for letting his country be destroyed, pathetic for allowing the shock to overtake him, pathetic for forgetting what had led him there.

Everyone could be dead; rotting away at the bottom of the pit, and he was stuck struggling over himself. Why had his friends- his _family,_ died and he lived? Why was he worthy over them? Was he even alive? It all plagued him, destroying his brain and attempts to calm down. 

The birds outside were chirping, filling his head with the sound of their mockery. Everything outside had continued on like nothing ever happened. Their lives had probably turned for the better if everyone was dead. They wouldn't be taking their trees and food for their own, no more buildings would block the places they made their homes, the birds were probably happy. 

Black was overtaking his view now. It faded in and out, only able to see the terrible messages covering every inch of the wall.

_'Don't trust anyone'_

The one in front of him read. The side of the D was covered by a dark red, smudged into the grooves of the letter. It radiated a metallic smell that had been annoying Wilbur ever since he woke up. Whoever had done this was _really_ losing it. It almost looked like it had been carved in with their nails, each scratch leaving behind some form of blood. Just looking at it he could tell that it would've been painful to create. Somehow they'd managed to cover the entire room with them, and there had probably been more lost with the blown-out wall.

He pushed himself against the ground and laid back against the engraved wall. His breathing was sporadic and painful, particles of metal and stone filling his lungs. The air circulation in the small room was not great and continued to carry in damage from the events outside. The familiar smell of warm summer lakes mixed with that of metallic dried blood, overtaking his senses in an unbalanced force.

Silent tears were still falling from his eyes, staining his sweater. Compared to the carnage outside, his top was quite clean. There were no holes or blood marks, just dirt from working and whatnot. There was still a red patch sewed into the bottom hem. It'd been put there by Phil after Wilbur had fought with Techno for the first time. 

He'd been stubborn and outmatched, his skill paling in comparison with his brother's. Techno had always been a prodigy at most things. He was a master with a sword the moment he'd picked one up. He was a natural at taking care of the family farm. He was always left in charge whenever the three were home alone. Wilbur was never any of those things, but he didn't let it bother him. He'd spar with Techno anyway. 

Something of his was always damaged in their fights. It never particularly hurt him, but for some reason younger Wilbur would absolutely not let Phil throw away his yellow sweater, going into full rabid breakdowns if he tried. So instead his dad opted to patch it up each time they fought. 

The memories helped him calm down a bit, his breathing having finally returned back to a reasonable pace. His stomach still ached and his eyes still watered, but his ability to stand finally returned to him.

He pulled himself up along the wall and pushed into it. He shifted alongside of it, each step more stable than the last. His sweater got caught in the carvings a few times and ripped holes in the already worn out top, but he managed to get to the unintentional opening of the room.

Looking out, there were no bodies in the pit _thank god-_ but the majority of L'manberg was in poor condition, yet there were already buildings in progress anyway. There was even a setup for what seemed to be a funeral. There was a small memorial for whoever had died outside of it. It was a strange picture they chose. He was holding what looked to be a fucking glock and wearing a crown, a wide smile spread across his face. Wilbur felt like he should know who he was, but no matter how hard he tried no name ever came to mind. To be fair, it was hard to make out the details from a distance, but he wasn't hopeful it'd be better if he got closer.

He stepped out of the stone room, carefully maneuvering his way down to the ground still remaining. It was a small patch of grass right around where the base of the stage should've been, and possibly the only stable ground anywhere near him. It now connected to a new spruce path that led to multiple others, making up for the huge hole in the ground. There were so many new structures that it felt as though he weren't in L'manberg, even the walls had been taken down. The only indicator he was still there was the staircase leading down from the rest of the prime path.

He began to walk along the new spruce path, desperately trying to find anyone or anything of familiarity. Admittedly, it was looking much better than he'd remembered. Somehow they'd managed to stick to a building scheme, each new building made out of spruce and oak. Whoever had gotten these people under control enough for that was a godsend. Or at least would've been if the entire country hadn't blown up. Even though so much had been destroyed in the blast, it seemed as though everything else was going relatively well. 

The wood below him creaked as he walked along, giving away the rushed shoddiness of the structure. He stopped for a second and let a warm nostalgia rush over him. The cheapness was characteristic of his friends, seeing as how all of them were shit at building. It seemed like just yesterday they were crafting the outline of the walls together. Was it yesterday?

His memory seemed to believe so. Fragments of events taunted him, each one more hazy than the last, unable to piece together a full story. But the rapid change of L'manberg clearly indicated that it was not yesterday, and whatever he had missed had been big. How long was he even asleep for? Why was he just lying there, in that cold room of someone's personal insanity?

He could remember winning L'manberg's independence, he could remember winning the election, he could remember a sharp pain before passing out, but nothing leading up to that stone room. Was he the one going insane? It was certainly a possibility at this point. The notion of it sent a chill down his spine, and he continued walking to try and drown it out.

Wilbur wasn't really sure where he was going. He'd felt so disoriented since waking up that he could barely tell left from right, and now here he was trying to navigate a bomb site. Even if he knew exactly which paths lead to where it wouldn't've helped. There was no one in sight that he could turn to, and he had no idea where to even begin. 

Each road twisted out into more confusing layouts, leading to new and old areas alike. He could try to think it out methodically and pick out which place was most likely to lead him to some recognizable life, or he could keep wandering around in the cold. Considering how scrambled and quick to change his mental state had been acting so far, he would probably have to stick with just wandering. So he continued down the path, not bothering to turn off into the seemingly endless possibilities. 

His venture eventually brought him towards the entrance of the prime path. The wood was still cutting through the mountain top, connecting off into the outskirts of L'manberg. It was a gamble on whether on not there was anything beyond the stone blocking his view, as it was entirely possible the bomb culprit blew it up as well. It was likely whoever had done this had a personal vendetta against the leadership of the nation, meaning they were more than likely to target Tommy's base that he'd dug into the mountain side. 

He began to walk up the stairs. It was oddly effortless despite how painstaking he'd remembered it. He could remember someone insisting that they simply install a water elevator to make it up easier, but someone else had said they should stick to the wood. He couldn't remember who either of the people were, continuously drawing a blank on most of the faces he had in his memory.

He probably should've worried more about the fact he could barely remember any of the people he had in his mind, but something about the subject terrified him, so he continued to ignore it and remain in blissful ignorance. Their wordless sentences clawed at the back of his head anyway, but he was unable to remember the sound of their voices. 

Luckily, he'd reach the top of the path before he had to think about it much more and was happy enough to find the area mostly intact. The bench overseeing the mountain range looked the same as the day Tommy built it. It brought a bittersweetness into his chest, wishing desperately he could remember why it'd been put there. He really wished he could remember anything of importance at the moment. 

A sudden rustle from inside Tommy's base interrupted his thoughts, making the hair on the back of his neck stand up. 

Tommy was stupid enough to never install doors on the base, so it was probably just a stray skeleton hiding from the bright sun outside. Normally it wouldn't have been much of a problem, but Wilbur had woken up with nothing on his person. He didn't even have a sword, let alone a shield to block its arrows. If he was lucky enough, it was also possible that it was another person inside, looking through the spare stuff his brother never bothered to use. Perhaps it was Tommy himself.

He pressed his back against the smooth andesite, trying to listen for any indicators of what was inside. 

Immediately he could tell it was a group of people. They'd come from the back storage room and were entering the main area, talking about something that was too muffled to make out. The first voice was too adult to be Tommy though, but a familiar British accent kept him hooked. The voice sent a warmth over his entire body, like a blanket covering him. Another voice responded, this one deeper than the last. It also dug deep into his mind, trying to unlock something he'd forgotten. He knew these people whether or not he could remember, and they were only a few feet away. 

For the first time since he'd woken up, Wilbur smiled, hopeful to see someone again. 

He moved over to the entrance, pressing his hand on the doorway so he wouldn't fall over. The people inside turned to him, and their expressions weren't exactly as warm as his.

"Wilbur..." Phil choked out, his voice quiet and raspy. His face was contorted in a guilty horror and his hands were clenched against his sides. He looked older than the last time he'd seen him, along with Techno standing next to him. That didn't matter to him in the moment, because upon seeing his dad's face, he could remember.

Wilbur was the dead one.


	2. Summer Talks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I MEANT TO WRITE TOMMY AT THE END OF LAST CHAPTER NOT TECHNO DYSLEXIA REALLY BE A BITCH AAAAGH

"Techno! Techno stop!" Wilbur laughed out, sprinting through the field of tall grass. The warm summer air settled around them, moving with the trampled ground. Fireflies and nats buzzed around filling the atmosphere with their sounds.

"Then admit that you lost already!" Technoblade yelled and continued to chase him, wooden sword in hand.

"Never!" He yelled back, his voice filled with childish joy. He ran and ran, feet pounding against the earth below him. He was a surprisingly agile young man, probably due to his lanky build. It had helped him out of many difficult situations in the past and was definitely aiding in the never-ending escape from his brother. Speed was one of the few things he had up on him after all.

"Stop being so stubborn!" He heard him yell, but he was already close enough to the forest lining their property that the sound began to grow muffled. Against his better judgment, Wilbur ran straight into the trees and disappeared.

He kept running, never once bothering to turn around, too preoccupied with his own vengeance. His legs hurt having to navigate through the rough path but the pain wasn't enough to bring him back to reality. Creeks and animal nests faded into the horizon line as he ran, each being counted as a mini landmark by the young boy.

For once in his life, it felt like a victory. The chirps of birds and insects were congratulating him; running through his mind like the cheers of his idols. He'd managed to escape Technoblade! He'd finally won!

Allowing himself to stop at a particularly large tree, it hit him how truly quiet it was. There were no more footsteps or yells of frustration, no more pink hair hiding in his peripheral, just him, alone in the forest. The trees suddenly seemed taller than he'd noticed before, depleting the light level hitting the ground. Nightfall was fast approaching and was bringing the threat of mobs along with it.

He clutched his wooden sword tightly in his hand and pressed his back into the tree as hard as he could. Slivers of wood pierced his palm, digging their way into the rest of his hand. Rustles in the bushes made him jump and shadows made him whimper. He was far too young for this, far, far too young.

Fireflies still danced around in the air, gradually growing brighter as the darkness continued to take over.

"Wilbur!" A panicked voice yelled. It was far away and distorted, dancing through out the trees in an off putting pitch. "Where are you?!"

It continued to grow closer, "Please come back!" and something about it feels dangerous. He quieted his breathing, hoping to hide from whatever was calling out to him.

"Wilbur!" It was even closer this time, only seeming a few trees away. There was no human that could move that quickly, and his fears continued to worsen. "You're going to get hurt out here!"

"Wilbur!" It sounded like it was right in front of him, but he still couldn't see anything but himself.

"Wil!" Its voice pounded in his ears, filling his head with pain.

"Wil, get a hold of yourself!" Phil said, shaking his shoulders. Or at least he would've if he could.

Wilbur blinked, rubbing his eyes. The forest had melted away, replaced by the white base. It looked about the same as he could remember. Smooth stone lined the walls in an uneven pattern from being greifed several times (and Tommy's general lack of care), although a few of the chests had been moved around. In front of him stood a panicked Phil who was attempting to grab his attention, yet his hands seemed to be unable to grasp. Behind him was Tommy, who - like usual - looked as confused and feral as a cryptid.

"How are you here?!" Phil asked, anxiety gripping his voice. His expression was hard to read, filled with mixes of concern and panic, but a hint of anger was held in his eyes. His movements were desperate and flakey, a weird juxtaposition to his normal behavior.

"Walked." Wilbur managed to choke out. "I just woke up." Looking over at his two family members, he could tell his skin was noticeably gray and transparent compared to their's.

Phil only seemed to grow more confused with the response. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but no words came out, and he fell quiet

"Aren't you supposed to be dead?" Tommy spoke, and his words were strangely hostile. His arms were folded over each other and he was leaning against the back wall, hunched over a bit.

Wilbur's face darkened and he shrugged, "I guess."

No response came from the others.

It hadn't become unusual for the trio to fall into silence like this over the past year. Wilbur would've paid someone to trick him into believing that they'd simply run out of things to say to each other after all this time, but he knew better than to believe such childish lies. Usually, the quiet would've upset him, but this time he couldn't feel anything other than indifference.

"Why was your respawn delayed...?" Phil questioned, although he seemed to be aiming his question to the ground instead of anyone in particular. His voice was uncharacteristically quiet, almost a silent whisper. Something about the sight made Wilbur's stomach churn, and he reached to put a hand on the shorter man's shoulder.

"Phil-"

"Shouldn't you have come back earlier?!" He spoke directly to Wil this time, his face full of guilt and sadness.

"Phil I..." Wilbur paused, unsure of the situation himself, "I didn't respawn."

He didn't react much, seemingly unable to process the statement. The way his face contorted made Wil's heart sink, and he wished he had the sympathy to comfort him. He'd once been good at it; comforting people after times of tragedy. But with no context to go off of here he had no idea where to start, especially since it had been his own death. So they stood there, dead son looking down awkwardly at his live father.

"Do you know how you died?" Phil asked, his eyes hidden by the brim of his hat.

The question felt like someone had stabbed him in the stomach, catching him completely off guard. He could remember little bits and pieces. The sound of fire that licked at the back of his neck and the urge he had to walk back into it. The cold void that was taking over his vision before his final moments. The gleaming sword in his body that looked so bright and blue against the red pouring out of his chest and the person on the other end.

Wil nods solemnly, trying not to let his anger about it creep into his voice. "I do."

"Wait, wait, wait, so are you a ghost or some shit?" Tommy practically yells, cutting in where there probably should've been another silence. He'd never been the best at thinking before saying, but god, does he never learn?

He doesn't respond and instead glares at his younger brother. For a split second, Wilbur swears he can see fear cross his face, but he quickly regains his composure. His eyes sour and he uncrosses his arms. Wil finally notices the bandages wrapped around the boy's limbs now. They're covered in dry blood and dirt, and look in desperate need of changing. There are a few new ones layered over top, although they look more like a shoddy attempt to hide the older ones than anything else.

"Nice to know that death doesn't change pussies." Tommy sneers, staring daggers at him.

"Sorry, I'm just a tiny bit annoyed that _someone_ killed me."

He sees Phil cringe, his body tensing at the statement. He shakes his hand off of his shoulder and stands straight again, face to face with him. "To be fair, you did ask me to kill you."

Wilbur laughed a bit, expecting the other two to reciprocate, but instead he's left alone to fade into awkwardness. Neither of them even slightly waiver in their seriousness. "You're joking, right?"

"You begged me to stab you!"

"Why the hell would I do that?!" He responds back, and he sees Tommy flinch out of the corner of his eye.

"Why did you do any of the weird shit you did?!" Phil's voice is strained and exasperation is evident in his tone.

Wil's breathing quickens, panic and anger mixing in his system. "I- I don't know..." He runs a hand through his scraggly hair, trying to find something to distract him from the feeling in his body.

Tommy steps up from behind Phil now, pushing him out of the way to yell at him. "How do you 'not know'?! You're fucking crazy, that's why!"

The same sickness from earlier returns and the nausea hits him like a brick.

"This is all your fault!" Tommy exclaims, trying to grab him by the top of his sweater, but his hands phase straight through. "If you'd just listened then none of this shit would've happened!"

His stomach tightens and his vision grows red, the people in front of him turning into blurred figures. Something inside his head is encouraging him to respond, to prove to them that he hasn't done anything wrong, to downright belittle his family. The thought sickens him even more, but it doesn't keep it from maintaining its spot in his head.

"Christ Tommy!" Phil pulls him away from Wilbur, allowing him to breathe a little better.

There's another part of him that's telling him to run as far away as possible. It fills his head with endless possibilities of awful scenarios if he stays there, most involving him hurting the other two. Visions of a dead Phil and an unconscious Tommy taunt him, taking over his conscience.

Both sides of him beg him to listen, and he can barely hear the conversation going on around him let alone process the implication of what they were saying. Once again, he wished he could just disappear without notice and bolt, run off to anywhere else where they weren't arguing about his evidently lost memories.

"I'm right though! If he just listened to me and realized blowing up L'manberg was a shit idea we wouldn't be here right now!"

Those are the first words to make it through to him in who knows how long, and they cursh his chest more than he thought anything ever could.

"What are you talking about?" He hopes, _prays_ , that this is some sort of purgatory hallucination and that god just had some sort of special way to torture him.

Tommy turns to look at him and rolls his eyes, "Don't act like you don't know asshole. You committed like," He pauses and starts to count on his fingers, "One... two... three... four... four war crimes! That's not something you can just pretend didn't happen."

He stays silent and stares at the younger kid. Once again, he looked strangely dead serious for such a stupid remark. The most "war crime" thing he'd ever done was start a drug war, and that was at most a federal crime. The angry part of him screams to yell at the kid, but he doesn't give in. He doesn't want to. Not yet anyway.

Phil's eyes widen when he doesn't respond, and a look of realization hits him. "Do you not remember?"

"Maybe? I can't really tell what were talking about anymore."

"So, no memory of L'manberg exploding then?" Tommy asks.

He doesn't quite process the words, going through one part of his head and out the other. The anger inside him is gnawing away at his mind now, screaming and begging to be allowed to take over. It brings back memories of fire and debris falling through the air in a bloody array, certainly not the most appealing thing.

"No." He says. It's the only thing he can think of in response, even though he knows its lackluster.

"Oh." He awkwardly responds, scratching the back of his neck. "Do you remember Pogtopia?"

Wil shakes his head, unsure of how to feel about the situation. If what he was saying was true then what the hell had he missed? Based off of what he had heard he wasn't sure if he even wanted to know.

Tommy's face falls, "What do you remember then?"

"Uhm... winning L'manberg from Dream, winning the election, then a weird ravine, a lot of fire and screaming, and then I got stabbed by Phil."

They both pause and share a look. It seems to be less angry now, but the tension is still thick in the air. It's not helping his anxiety either.

"Anything else?" Phil asks. He looks confused and sad, but his body is tense with frustration.

"Well, obviously more but it's a bit much to say out loud."

Phil nods, and disappears into the back storage room without a word, not leaving an opportunity for the other two to protest.

They're alone now, brother to brother.

Tommy looks a lot older than Wilbur remembers. He's only an inch shorter than him now, though he'd probably be taller if his posture wasn't so shit. Scars and bruises line his skin where the bandages aren't covering revealing battles of day's past. His hair is dirty and matted and looks like it hasn't been brushed in weeks. His eyes are terrifyingly worn out for a teenager. He can only assume at this point that he's still sixteen.

Neither of them say anything, and Tommy begins to fidget with grooves in the smooth wall. The awkwardness between them is almost visual, but it's understandable. If he was in his position at the moment he'd be confused and angry as well. Or at least he liked to think he would.

The outside suddenly seems very appealing despite being basically unknown to him now. Whatever Phil was planning he wasn't exactly going to listen to anyway, seeing as he was still angry from being stabbed. He thought it would be a reasonable thing to be mad about, but it seems as though he had been asking for it.

The notion of something that ridiculous was far away from reality in his head, but they both believed it so wholeheartedly. He just wanted to forget it. His brain desperately yelled at him to leave while he still had the privilege of being left in blissful ignorance. Whatever they were talking about wasn't pretty, and he'd already managed to block out some of it. Yet he couldn't quite bring himself to up and leave despite how much he wanted to.

Phil finally enters the room again, holding a book and quill, and hastily shoves it into Wilbur's hands.

"Write everything you can remember." He pauses for a second as Wilbur takes it, but doesn't let him argue. "And I mean everything."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the abrupt ending and kind of short chap, I got stuck and I didn't want to leave you guys for too long :,)  
> I'll try to update faster this time! (and hopefully make it longer)
> 
> ALSO RANBOO ON THE DSMP NOW? POG?


	3. Written Memories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I ACTUALLY HAVE A PLAN FOR THIS FIC NOW!  
> It's gonna include the new events although it's gonna be sort of mixed around??  
> Also the timeline on this is different, basically just assume Ghostbur woke up 2 weeks before Tommy's exile and don't question it

Writing had suddenly become therapeutic over the past few hours.

It was the only thing Wilbur knew for sure he could remember correctly. He'd never been the best at spelling, and he'd always had messy handwriting, but he could still write legibly enough for the others to understand. He had control over the way the ink layered the page, and it drove away the forces fighting inside his head. 

The black seeped into the hand made paper, forming badly written letters. It covered the pages from top to bottom, replacing the blank whiteness with mostly empty doodles. Out of all of the crossed-out scribbles, only a few actually conveyed any meaning. They held the last of his memories from life, each a little more bare than the last. It was quite the sad sight- being able to fit the majority of your life in three pages, but the peacefulness of it al9l was better to focus on.

_ Books _ .

His hand traced out. It didn't mean much without context but it was truly all he had to go off of. There had been books and there had been secrets, and somehow they connected to each other. Whether or not that was significant in his life didn't matter, because he'd been able to remember it, and he promised to write down everything. Perhaps that was why the page was such a mess. 

_ Tunnels _ .

He could remember a lot of tunnels, that's for sure. Where those tunnels led to or their purpose- he had no idea. All he knew is that they went on for a ridiculously long time, winding down past his line of sight and into the darkness of the underground branching off into multiple other paths. 

_ Arrows _ .

There were a few arrows he could recall. The arrow that struck Tommy in the head, killing him, but ultimately leading to L'manberg's independence. The arrow that constantly occupied Dream's crossbow for seemingly no reason other than intimidation. The arrow Tommy had trained at... someone's head for some reason. Whatever it'd been was now lost on him, but his expression was full of anger in the moment. It was probably important. 

His hand moved to write another line, but upon bringing the ink to the page he was only able to produce a single dot. He racked his brain for anything else, desperately searching for at least one other valuable memory. The words taunted him, bringing up the same instances over and over again. Was this all he was reduced to? Three pages and a growing list of unknowns?

Once again his situation felt like a nightmare. His brother could barely look at him without some trace of disgust or fear, his dad was avoiding him as much as possible after fucking stabbing him, and everything he could remember working for was gone and destroyed.

The fact that he was dead wasn't even able to set in after everything else. It didn't matter that he was supposed to be rotting in the ground, that wasn't the problem now, his entire nation was blown up and his family was strongly insinuating that he'd been the culprit. He really wished he had someone to distract him from his thoughts. But Phil had left him alone in the back storage room and forced Tommy to go as well. The various sharpie markings on the walls were the only things keeping him company now. 

They forced bitter-sweetness into his heart, a sad smile crossing his face as he reminisced about their origins. Each one was a scribble of the kid's heights throughout the war, dashing further along the wall as they grew up. It ended with Tommy being the tallest of course, with Fundy trailing behind him and Tubbo in last. The only memory he had of using it was a few days before the final duel.

Fundy had hit a growth spurt during the middle of the night and suddenly looked like he might be an inch or two taller than Tommy. Of course, neither being one to back down, they argued about it all day, until Wilbur offered to settle it by measuring them against the wall again. Turned out they were the same height, although neither of them were satisfied with the conclusion. They both vowed that they'd end up taller than the other, but it looked like Tommy won that race now. 

Wilbur shook his head and readjusted his position against the wall, bringing the book in his lap back to his attention. He moved his hand to mark down the only thing he could think of,

_ I don't know _ . 

It was true. He didn't know. No matter how badly he tried to bring back the past it remained a closed-off mystery. It felt like dramatic irony, although Techno's friendly words reminded him that it certainly was not.

He laughed a little bit, sadness echoing throughout the tone. Out of all the things he'd managed to retain Techno's literary lessons were one of them.

Wilbur stood up and stretched his non-existent joints, no sound produced by the useless action. Phil told him to go and find him after finishing the book, so he peeked his head through the doorway into the main entrance. It was bright and sunny out, presumably the same day, although smoke was still layered over the air. Phil was nowhere to be seen, the base empty of anyone else but himself. Did he even count as a ghost?

"Phil!" He called out, his voice was still painfully raspy. He waited for a second, but no response came. No ruffling of wings, no shuffling from boots, no grunt of acknowledgment, just silence. 

He stepped out into the room and it was painfully clear he'd be left. Phil's travel pack was gone from the top of one of the furnaces and Tommy's sword was no longer leaning against the wall. 

_ Are these fucks really about to make me search for them?  _ He thought to himself,  _ God damn it.  _

He stepped into the doorway, hand resting against the stone. The notion that'd wanted him to run earlier was clawing at the back of his head again, now going back on its word and begging for him to stay inside the base. It shot shivers down his spine, bringing the visions back from earlier, but he tried his best to ignore them and pushed past the exit.

Outside it was warm and cicadas were buzzing in the air, slightly drowning out the worries in his head. But now that he was out, he had no idea where the others had run off to. The wooden paths didn't take footprints like the old dirt ones did, and the rampant creeper holes didn't help much with navigation. So with no leads to go off of, he started down the path to L'manberg.

\---

Entering the city for the second time, he was finally able to see how much better it had become since his death. Sure, he'd passed through before on his way to the base, but a delirious post-death state wasn't exactly the best for sightseeing.

They'd built up spruce platforms over the explosion's aftermath and connected them all to the few intact areas surrounding it, leading off into the outskirts of the nation. There were several houses in various stages of development littering the hills, each made out of oak and spruce. Even though it'd been blown up, L'manberg looked better than he could ever recall.

He began to make his way up to the first set of stairs, which led to a small market with a few empty stalls. L’manberg was strangely well developed for a population of maybe twelve. It probably didn’t count as a city, much less a country compared to the likes of Deltas and Corkus, but the laws inside the Dream SMP province weren’t nearly as strict as others. L’manberg’s existence was a testament to the fact, seeing as how they would’ve been killed had they attempted a revolution anywhere else.

At the back of the platform, there was a bulletin board filled with loose papers. Seeing as it may contain any information to help his situation, he walked over to it. On it were a few things, announcements, old campaign posters, random doodles on sticky notes; but what really caught his eye were the several wanted posters of his dear old twin. It wasn’t the first he’d ever seen, (Techno didn’t exactly have a clean criminal record) but the handwriting on it was painfully familiar. Who’d ever written this he knew personally, but no matter how hard he tried he couldn’t pin a name to it.

The picture they had used was either severely outdated or a part of his missing memories. His bright pink hair was trailing down his shoulders, pulled back into a thin ponytail ending at his mid-back. The skull mask he wore over his face was badly damaged, cracks and missing teeth marking it’s decay. He still wore his crown despite it all. 

The posters didn’t state a reason as to why he was wanted, hell, Techno had never even been to Dream SMP territory from what Wilbur thought. It was possible the posters were a request from Dream; he’d been searching for him for quite a while now. But the same thing happened with Phil, who was now very much in the city with them. Yet if Techno had been there, why was he wanted by L’manberg?

A creek in the wood broke him away from his thoughts, and he quickly whipped around to see what was there.

Standing at the other end of the platform was a small teenager, wearing the same uniform he had briefly worn during his presidency. He stared Wilbur dead in the eyes, expression filled with nervousness. There was a faint scar running from the top of his neck down past his shirt collar, wrapping across the back of his head.

“Wilbur!” He said, fear plain in his undisguised tone. He knew that he knew this kid, his name seemed so close in his mind. “How are you uhm… here?”

Wilbur shrugged, still frustrated with the memory of his death, “It’s complicated, T-”    
He stopped, mind suddenly alert from the letter. T? Did his name start with T? The sound was comfortable on his tongue, but the rest wasn’t coming as easily. The only hint he had to the rest of his identity was his attire, suggesting he’d been put in charge after his death. “President… er… Tubbo?”

He didn’t have much of a reaction, but Wilbur knew he was right from the sudden flood of information. It was like someone had taken the point of view from the rest of his memories and panned the camera to the right, revealing the boy had been there all along.

Tubbo nodded slightly and his brows creased in confusion, yet a hint of panic was still in his eyes. “Are you alive or… ?” 

“No.” He hissed out, far more aggressive than he meant it to be. Tubbo flinched and shrunk a little, his shoulders sagging as he tried to maintain eye contact.

Wilbur’s eyes widened at the response, and his mind began to race again. 

Was everyone afraid of him? Why? Did he hurt them? Were they remembering him right?

He cleared his throat and untensed his posture, “No I’m… I’m dead, Tubbo.” His voice was a bit rough still.

He didn’t say anything back to him but he didn’t tense any further, nor did he seem more relaxed. His hands were still fidgeting with the stack of paper in his hands and his eyes were unmoving in their position staring at him. Tubbo had always been a bit of a funny kid, but considering the way Tommy and Phil had first reacted to him, his new behavior probably wasn’t born out of nowhere.

“Why did you even come here?” Tubbo’s words were quiet, yet laced with faint anger. It contradicted the rest of his current persona sharply and sent a wave of coldness throughout Wilbur’s head. 

He choked back his urge to yell, careful not to scare the kid again. “What do you mean?” 

He paused for a moment, fearful expression morphing into one of confused frustration. By the time he had opened his mouth to speak again rushed footsteps interrupted them both. It came from behind Wilbur, the wood still creaking beneath the person’s weight. Tubbo’s face faltered slightly.

“Wilbur, what the hell are you doing?!” Tommy ran dangerously carelessly across the paths considering the nonexistent guard rails, diamond sword strapped to his back and all. 

“I was looking for you and Phil.” He responded, still trying to keep his voice under control.

He turned down the last set of stairs just as fast as the others, nearly tripping down the spruce wood. “We told you to stay at my house!” 

“But Phil said to come find-”

“He specifically said to stay in that room until we came back!” He yelled, although out of breath.

Wilbur blinked, trying to remember such an event occurring. Voices scratched at the back of his head, but nothing came to mind. Phil only told him to write in the book and find him when he was done. 

“I must’ve forgotten.” He replied, squeezing the skin on his arm to keep the anger from filling his head again. 

Tommy’s face scrunched in confusion, hands wildly waving around before he let out a frustrated groan. 

Tubbo cleared his throat, attempting to catch the attention of the other two. “Do you mind telling me what's going on here?”

Tommy stops and shifts awkwardly when he finally notices his friend there. He scratches the back of his neck and walks over to Tubbo, slinging his free arm around one of his shoulders. The action almost makes Tubbo drop the stack of papers in his hands.

"Look, Big T, T-Money, Tubbox, Wilbur seems to have lost his mind a bit." He explains, his confidence washing over the undeniable tension between the two boys

"More than he already has?" Tubbo asks, and Wilbur's mind blanks a bit. His heart aches at the mention of 'craziness', but he doesn't dare feed into that persona by arguing against them.

He nods, "More than he already has."

With those words, the smaller boy tenses up and stares down Wilbur again. His face is filled with a weird mix of anger and fear, and he's never seen Tubbo wear an expression quite like it. Seeing the boy like that almost fills his heart with a strange sorrow, although he pushes it out in favor of confusion.

"Fucker doesn't remember a thing!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying to do world-building based off of wynncraft sorry if it doesn't make sense lol  
> (writing this in a void of 20 year olds feels weird)
> 
> also I always get like 90% of the chapter done in the first two days and then I have no idea how to end it :,)

**Author's Note:**

> lol this is not gonna go well


End file.
